


Resistere

by countingpaperstars



Series: Home of the Sun [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Canon, First Love, First Meetings, Gaslighting, Grooming, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Niflheim Prince Prompto Argentum, Physical Abuse, Prince Prompto Argentum, Rescue, couple of slaps nothing more, the ardyn/prompto doesn't happen until he's older
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24165154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countingpaperstars/pseuds/countingpaperstars
Summary: Prompto has resigned himself to decommissioning - has given up entirely. After months of dark halls, ration bars, and fighting for his life, he's thankful for the end. That is, until a kind stranger pulls him from the depths only to give him a new name, and a crown of his own. As the new prince of Niflheim, he's sucked into a whirlwind of politics, plots, and eventual romance. He's always known he was doomed from the start.
Relationships: One-Sided Prompto Argentum/Ardyn Izunia - Relationship, Prompto Argentum/Original Character
Series: Home of the Sun [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1066664
Comments: 43
Kudos: 81





	1. Nine/Ten

**Author's Note:**

> Resistere - to resist
> 
> This prequel has been a long looooong time coming! It can be read as stand alone, but it may help to read [Divenire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12761211/chapters/29112909) too. I have all the chapters drafted, so I'll be releasing them alongside the main story as we go. They follow different ages and slices of time (be assured that all the romance comes later on.)
> 
> Scenes in this chapter were inspired by pigeon-princess' AU which you can find [here.](https://pigeon-princess.tumblr.com/post/164052100212/taken-from-the-niflheim-labs-and-raised-as-the) Huge thanks to her for all her encouragement, to Tera my number one fan, and to Juli for her never-ending support.
> 
> Enjoy~

It’s hard to remember much from Before.

Prompto likes to blame the dark liquids in the labs that make him too sick to stand, black fluid clogging his nose and throat, but it’s mostly the passage of time wearing him like a river upon a rock. He’s not sure how long he’s been here.

Memories of Tenebrae shine in his mind like an untouched island in an inky sea. He tries to keep them tucked away, afraid that if he looks to them in the wrong moment they will be gone, and Noctis and Lunafreya will disappear right along with them, washed away in the waves. In the dark of night, when all he feels is cold, biting metal under his skin - hears it creaking in the halls and smells its sharp tang - he allows himself to dream of greener days.

He can barely remember his parents now, soft wisps of his father’s warm hugs and kisses pressed to his head and his mother’s sweet voice and tender hands through his hair. Everything else is a memory of a memory. He’d been so young when they’d sent him away.

Although he didn’t always understand the words on his father’s newscasts, he knew the growing turmoil in their country was bad. Every time a fancy envelope would be delivered to their home the tension was unmistakable. Many nights he sat on the stairs and listened as his parents whispered worriedly to each other; listened to his father’s repetitive reassurances as his mother cried.

_“You’re not safe here,” she said, wiping away his tears and bundling his coat tighter around him. “Tenebrae’s not so bad, darling. We’ll join you when we can.”_

It was an empty promise, but still he hugged his family goodbye and let their friends tuck him snuggly in the back of their truck. When they reached the checkpoint he remained hidden beneath the cargo like they told him, scarcely daring to breathe as the border guards poked and prodded the goods stacked around him. The howling blizzard outside didn’t compare to the ice terror which froze his blood.

Tenebrae was gorgeous, green and lush in ways he’d never seen before. He remembers the refugee school with its rickety wooden desks and patient teacher; remembers how he stumbled upon an injured Pryna and how afraid he’d been when officials had shown up on his doorstep; remembers growing close to Lunafreya and how Noctis’ arrival had spilled into shared adventures. They’re fainter now, blurred by the months and months in cold, clinical halls and rigorous drills and routines. Here, he was simply a number among many. 

He hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye, he thinks, dully. They’d found him too quickly.

There’s a gap in his memories between then and his first weeks of training, pieces and snippets blinking in and out of consciousness. He doesn’t remember getting the tattoo - the stark lines of the barcode harsh and raised on the smooth skin of his wrist. The first few weeks it had itched like hell, but he didn’t dare scratch it for fear of reprimand.

As the days flew by he did as he was told – ate the ration bars that left his stomach aching as his body weight fell off in pounds, and learned to cry silently at night when no one was around to punish him for showing emotion. 

When he’d been deemed qualified for the program and weapons training came about he knew he was in trouble. Most of the other kids had been there longer and developed a fully formed pecking order, determined to fight tooth and nail to win their matches and move forward to the next stage. It was either that or face decommissioning and reassignment. 

Whispers of the experimental ward haunted their barracks – rumors of how they’d take you apart and put you back together differently; a ghost story come to life to snap at their heels.

They jeered and taunted him with every match he lost, sloppy and slow in his too-thin body to attack and dodge and parry. Ranged weapons were even worse, what with his glasses crushed underfoot somewhere in the dirt of Tenebrae. It’s no wonder he’s landed himself right in the middle of the nightmare itself, but all he feels inside is a terrible emptiness. 

The fluorescent lights flicker in the corner and he stares at a moth frantically beating its wings to reach it – and to no end. Prompto hasn’t seen the sun in weeks, _months_ even, and it’s getting harder to keep track. Has his birthday come and gone? Do Magitek soldiers even have birthdays anymore?

A tear slips out of the corner of his eye, rolling down his cheek and dripping into his hair as he clenches them shut. This is why he’s defective – he can’t reign in his humanity, not like the ones trained from the ground up. There were others like him brought in later on, children of aristocrats fallen under the emperor’s paranoia, but their success rate was few and far between.

He was doomed from the beginning.

The door to the room creaks, but he can’t turn his head to look. His breath stutters as he tries to relax into the ties on the table.

“Well then,” says a voice, deep and gravelly. Prompto doesn’t respond. Any words spoken during his exams are never for him. “You’re not meant to be here, now are you?”

The question confuses him. He failed his training and lost all his matches, which are the qualifiers for decommissioning – where else would he be?

Cracking his eyes open to peek, he stares up into the crooked smile of a man with wild locks framed in the flat yellow of the lights. He doesn’t have the energy to flinch when a hand reaches out to smooth his hair back. Another tear slips out against his will at the tenderness. How long has it been since he’s been touched in anything other than harsh anger and clinical formality?

A finger wipes the damp away before turning to snap the clasps of the restraints. “You’ll do nicely, I think,” the man says. He catches Prompto when he stumbles, bare feet slapping against the polished floor.

He’s much too old to be coddled, but when he’s scooped up into the man’s arms and maneuvered to settle on his hip, he goes limp. The tears leak freely. He winds his small hands into the folds of the man’s scarf, head tucked along his shoulder as he watches the lights pass overhead. If these are his last memories then he’s determined to enjoy the human contact for all he can.

The sob escapes him before he can stop it – it hardly matters now – but the man only hushes him softly and runs a hand down his back, soothing. It’s warm through the thin fabric of his issued training shirt. 

“It’s alright, pet,” the man says, and Prompto wants so desperately to believe it.

Time slips away from him again, the sway of the man’s gait rocking as he walks. At some point they enter an elevator, the mechanical hum reassuring as he slips into a doze.

“Is this him then? Doesn’t look like much.”

The voice is cold and Prompto startles awake.

“Have you no faith in me?” says the one with the wild hair and Prompto shifts uneasily. He keeps his face hidden, afraid to look up and find it all a dream. “This will all pay off in the end, as planned.”

“It better.”

Papers are shuffled and Prompto finally dares to glance up from his hiding. The room is the fanciest he’s ever seen – ceilings as tall as the heavens and walls decorated with finely crafted molding – but what he can hardly tear his eyes away from is the _windows._

The light is dark, sun hidden behind a flurry of snow, but it’s _there_ – a world beyond the hell he’s grown accustomed to. He gasps and the man holding him follows his gaze, hitching him up on his hip to take a better look. “A sight for sore eyes, no?”

“Can he even talk?”

Prompto twists to find another man, hair faded white and hardened eyes. An ornate headpiece twists along his brow and Prompto’s stomach plummets. He knows who this is – has seen him in the endless parade of campaigns and news reports. Emperor Iedolas.

Fear twists in his throat like a vine of thorns. He presses closer in the other man’s arms, who shushes him soothingly.

“Can hardly blame the thing, can you?”

Emperor Iedolas scoffs and finally frees a sheet from the stack placed upon his table by a uniformed woman. “Prompto Argentum?”

Prompto startles. He’d forgotten how it sounded out loud – almost forgotten it entirely. He dregs up the last of his nerves and manners, his voice rough with disuse. “Yes, sir.”

“Given his mother’s name,” says the other man.

“Traitor’s son come home. Fitting.” The Emperor’s eyes narrow as he scrutinizes him, but he seems to find something he deems to his standards and scrawls across the paper. “Not anymore,” he says. “You’ll be Prompto Aldercapt henceforth, do you understand?”

Prompto nods, all the energy sapping from him as he drops his head to the other man’s shoulder. The seal lands heavy on the paper, imprinting on the hot wax and sealing his fate.

He’s taken to a different room, with a long table and cushioned chairs. The man sets him in one and snaps his fingers at a uniformed man at attention by the wall.

“Now then, Prompto dear,” he says. “I’ve yet to introduce myself. My name is Ardyn Izunia.” He holds out a hand for him to take, grip gentle and encompassing as they shake.

“P-pleased to meet you.”

Ardyn tilts his head in amusement, eyes twinkling. “And well-mannered to boot. After all that ordeal.”

Sniffling, Prompto twists his hands in his long shirt. The whorls on the table start to blur and he can hardly believe the velvet texture of the seat.

The door swings open on silent hinges and the uniformed man places a steaming bowl of broth on the table before him. Prompto’s stomach quivers, his hand coming up to reach for the spoon before he stops. He glances at Ardyn from the corner of his eye. The smell is mouth-watering and he trembles with the strength it takes to resist. He watches Ardyn’s expression for any hint at the test, but he merely picks up the spoon himself and presses it to his hand.

“You must be hungry. Please help yourself.”

It takes little more than that, Prompto scooping the soup up with tentative care. The first bite warms him from head to toe. He hasn’t felt alive in so long. Three scoops later and he abandons it, instead picking the bowl up and draining it from the rim.

Ardyn watches with keen eyes. “You may want to slow down. Wouldn’t want to lose it all right after you’ve eaten.”

Prompto stops at that, and swallows. His stomach feels full to bursting already, which makes it easier to even out his sips. Soon the bowl is empty, and Prompto stares at it forlornly.

“We’ll get you some more in a while,” says Ardyn as he pushes the bowl towards the staff. “You’ll have to be reintroduced slowly to build up your strength.” He folds his hands and waits for Prompto’s full attention. “Now, Prompto, do you know what’s going on?”

“You… rescued me,” he says, crossing his ankles and fidgeting restlessly. The words taste too good to be true. He watches Ardyn’s face closely.

Ardyn doesn’t say any more, merely smiles and offers a hand. Prompto stands shakily, but manages to walk down the hall holding onto Ardyn’s arm.

By the time they reach their destination, he’s exhausted. Another attendant is waved forward and Ardyn passes over his hand. “See to it that he’s bathed while a room is prepared.”

The woman nods and leads Prompto into a large chamber. The bath is the size of a small swimming pool, arching windows letting in white light across the tile. He hardly blinks as the woman helps him strip, used to the perfunctory utility, and accepts her help as he steps into the water. It’s warm, soothing against his chafed skin and old cuts. His muscles relax for the first time in who knows how long and Prompto sinks in up to his nose. The woman is kind enough to avert her eyes when his tears mix with the water.

Her movements are clinical, working shampoo into his greasy hair - once, twice - and then letting the conditioner set while they both work at scrubbing his skin. An old bruise smarts on his ribcage, but he hardly minds the bother as he manages to work the grime from under his nails.

When he emerges from the steam, he feels as if he’s shed into an entirely new skin. The fresh cleanliness wraps around him as the attendant dresses him in soft, cotton clothes.

Prompto follows her down the hall, eyes drooping as he stumbles along. He’s half asleep by the time they reach the room and he barely manages to side-eye the two Magitek stationed on either side.

The room is huge. There’s a tall bookshelf against one wall stuffed with _books_ of so many sizes and colored spines, and a desk is pushed against the wall beside it. He’s never seen a bed so big and plush, piled with pillows and blankets. He takes a half aborted step towards it when he spots Ardyn waiting by a large window seat.

“That’s better now isn’t it,” he says.

Prompto nods drowsily and glances towards the bed once again.

Ardyn nods his head towards it. “It’s all right, dear. Go on.”

It feels like a dream, all of it. Prompto can hardly believe he’s awake as he crawls onto the magnificent cloud. The tears slip out before he can stop them, soft, hiccuping gasps he tries to muffle in the comforter. Ardyn shushes him softly, placing a comforting hand over his eyes.

“Get some rest. We’ll have time to get you settled,” he says and pulls his hand away.

Prompto’s asleep by the time he leaves.

From there on, he’s afraid to blink. 

He spends all his free time staring out the window at the world below, fearful of it disappearing from underneath him. A doctor in white coat checks him out every few days and draws up a meal plan to get him to a healthy weight. Prompto can hardly control himself even with the portioned food. The first few days he sleeps long and hard, but he gradually finds it harder and harder to sleep in such a soft bed as his exhaustion is weaned off. After Ardyn finds him sleeping on the floor they find him a firmer mattress to help ease the transition.

They make him new glasses – round, red frames – and it’s like rediscovering the world all over again. He can see the sharp edges in the distance, the city below his window bustling with life. He’s thankful to be able to take it all in once again, but sometimes he wonders if maybe he would’ve been better off with the blurriness.

He never gets used to the Magitek standing outside his door. It’s hard to leave the room when he knows he’ll have to see them, see what he could have become – wonder if he knew them. Whenever he and Ardyn leave to go to the dining hall, they follow close behind and stand at attention nearby.

Ardyn comes and goes as the wind pleases, bringing him trinkets and gifts from all over. He’s easily Prompto’s favorite person, constant and reliable. 

He’s terribly aware of his place at all times – aware of the mark etched into his skinny wrist and how easily it could all be snatched away.

“Do you know why you are here?”

Prompto scrunches his nose, staring down at the trucks pulling away from the manor courtyard. “You changed my name,” he says.

“That’s right. The emperor needs an heir,” says Ardyn, and taps beneath Prompto’s chin until he looks up. “When you’re ready, we’ll tutor you into fulfilling the role. A _prince._ ”

The word feels wrong and ill-fitting, like shoes too big in the toes. Prompto grips his wrist and slants his gaze.

“Does that not sound agreeable?”

Prompto scrambles to recover. “It does! It does. I just…” He trails off, unsure of his footing.

“Mm?”

“I miss my mom and dad,” Prompto sniffs, “and Noct and Luna.”

Ardyn pauses, scrutinizing him closely. “My, fate has brought you here, no?” he says finally. “Surely you’ll see them again someday.” He pulls a candy bar from the folds of his cloak and snaps it into portions, handing over a sizable piece to munch on. “Why don’t you tell me all about them?”

Prompto accepts the chocolate, taking a bite and relishing the sweet flavor. He rambles all about his memories – what he can remember of his parents, his life from Before, and all about Tenebrae. Ardyn listens intently, and it helps just to be heard. The memories solidify in his mind the more he speaks of them.

He’s nearing his eleventh birthday when Ardyn comes back bearing a gift, the box bright and shiny in his hands. “A growing prince needs his hobbies,” he says.

The box opens easily to display a camera, sleek and the perfect size to fit in Prompto’s hands. He doesn’t mean to, but his eyes tear up as he traces over the buttons.

“Just like in Tenebrae, no?”

Prompto nods, clutching it to his chest. He spends the next few weeks filling the memory card with pictures – the weather outside and the lighting in the halls, Ardyn’s tilted smile and the flowers in bloom along the balcony below his window.

One night Ardyn returns, weary with hardened lines along his face. The air crackles sharp with tension and Prompto tries his best to comfort the best way he knows how. 

“Ardyn, can you please tell me more about the chocobos?” he asks, cradling his favorite book in his arms with wide eyes. He’s spent hours tracing the pictures of the fluffy birds, aches to see one deep in his heart and revels in the tales Ardyn carries with him as a substitute.

“Hmm,” says Ardyn as he removes his hat and coat, sitting down in the window seat where Prompto spends most of his days. “I thought we might try a different story today, pet.”

Outside, the world has fallen to ice, snow swirling around in a blizzard. The window is cold to the touch and Prompto gathers a blanket around himself as he settles in. A flame crackles from the fireplace in the corner of his room.

“Do you recall your lessons about the Astrals?”

Prompto nods eagerly. “Yes, they told me all about the war. How Solheim turned on Ifrit and he attacked them. He and Bahamut fought for a long time.”

“Very good,” says Ardyn, and Prompto preens. “That is the general gist of it, but they forgot some very important pieces. There was a man who could heal the Scourge.”

Prompto gasps, eyes widening in awe. The Scourge was a terrible disease that had decimated the country of Solheim and ravaged Eos for ages. To know someone who could heal it was unheard of.

“He did his best, traveling far and wide to do so. He had a chocobo he loved very much, feathers black as the night. She saw him safely along his travels.”

“Black chocobos are so cute,” Prompto sighed.

“Indeed. The man was rumored to be the chosen king, but when he came to claim his right, the Crystal deemed him unworthy for the very thing he sought to heal.” Ardyn glances out the window, jaw tightening. “The gods banished him and passed the crown to his brother instead.”

“How awful of them,” Prompto whispers. “What happened to the man?”

Ardyn stares down at him with sharp eyes and grins. “Who knows, perhaps he’s still wandering this world, waiting.”

Prompto shivers and glances out the window. He can’t see anything past the white.

“But that’s enough for tonight. Off to bed.”

He scrambles into bed, Ardyn upturning the covers around him before bidding him goodnight and slipping from his room. The attendant has long since tamed the fire, but the shadows still flicker against the wall and Prompto watches them as he considers his history. He falls asleep thinking of the fallen king and his black chocobo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well there we have it! Thank you for reading, I'd love to hear your thoughts ♡
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/countpaperstars) | [writing blog](http://countingpaperstars.tumblr.com) | [tumblr](http://thenameisfame.tumblr.com)


	2. Fifteen/Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His father calls for his attention and he startles, nearly dropping his soup spoon. “It’s been brought to my attention that it’s high time for you to be presented to society.”_
> 
> Prompto adjusts to several new changes and meets some new allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another look into Prompto's childhood growing up in Niflheim! This time, at the older ages of fifteen/sixteen, we get an introduction to more of our cast and a deeper understanding of what's expected of him.
> 
> Please be aware of the tags heading in to this chapter. If you need more specific warnings: there is an instance of non-consensual lasik type surgery (not to any detail) and a physical slap, so be warned and protect yourself if needed.
> 
> Enjoy~

“Are you paying attention?”

Prompto shakes himself from the daydream he’d been playing over in his mind, staring out the window. It’s cracked enough for a brisk breeze to pass through, carrying the scent of dying leaves.

“Sorry,” he says, and glances at the textbook open before him.

His history tutor clears their throat. “As I was saying, I expect a full essay detailing the reasons behind our war with Lucis by next Thursday. Dismissed.”

With a stretch, Prompto gathers his books and slips out the room. The Magitek soldier stationed at the door creaks to attention as he passes, following close behind as he heads back to his room. The echoing footsteps still bother him, but it leaves him be as he retreats inside.

He tosses his books onto the desk and moves to his window seat, swinging the glass open wide and sucking in a full breath. A camera rests on the cushion next to him and he picks it up, rotating the focus until the tree planted on the balcony below sharpens into view. Its branches are all but bare, signaling the start of Niflheim’s winter.

“Knock knock,” someone says behind him. Ardyn leans in from the hall, grinning broadly as he steps inside. “Still enjoying the camera I see.”

Prompto jumps up. “You’re back!”

“Indeed,” says Ardyn. “The emperor requests us both to join him for dinner.”

“Oh,” says Prompto, stomach flipping. He can count the number of family dinners they’ve had on two hands, each one as stilted as the last. “Okay.”

Ardyn leads the way to the dining hall, where fine china has been laid across the long table. Emperor Iedolas already sits at the head, hands bridged before his nose as he waits, and Prompto scurries to the place beside him. 

“Apologies for the wait,” says Ardyn. “I found myself in need of respite after the long journey.”

The first course is placed before them and Prompto selects the right utensil with ease, thanks to the long-suffering diligence of his etiquette tutor. His father barely spares him a glance.

“Your search was fruitful I hope?” he asks Ardyn.

“Most definitely.”

They speak briefly of strategy and politics and Prompto struggles to follow along, the events and names almost as foreign as the places they belong to. He asked one of his tutors about such things once and was briskly chided for not focusing on the _important_ things, like table place settings. Prompto isn’t sure how much that’s going to help him run a country someday.

His father calls for his attention and he startles, nearly dropping his soup spoon. “It’s been brought to my attention that it’s high time for you to be presented to society.”

Prompto keeps his face clear, setting down his spoon gently and folding his hands in his lap. “How so, father?”

“The people grow restless.” He pauses to cough into his napkin. “This war’s been hard on them and they could do with a distraction from it all.”

Confused as to how he plays a part in this, Prompto glances between him and Ardyn warily.

“We believe introducing our up and coming prince, fresh-faced and previously kept from the media’s spotlight, will do just the trick,” says Ardyn and he waves a hand. “A few interviews, photoshoots, endorsements, that’s all. What do you say, dear, do you want to help your people?”

Prompto grips his napkin and nods his head. It sounds terrifying, being put on the spot before the whole country, but part of him is excited to see what lies beyond the manor. “I’m willing to do my part.”

“Then it’s settled.”

And that’s that.

He’s curled up on the window seat, reading his well-worn book about creatures in Duscae again, when they come for him. His tutors have already been and gone for the day, although he finds he learns more when he’s left to his own devices.

The doors fling open, ricocheting off the wall as Prompto clambers to his feet in alarm. Several Magitek enter the room, grabbing him by the arms and hauling him down the twisting hallways of the manor. It’s then the shock wears off and Prompto fights, yelping as he grapples his hands against the unyielding metal of their grip. He digs his heels in, then goes limp to try and get them to drop him, but they merely drag him along without preamble.

By the time they reach the elevator to Zegnautus Keep, he’s tacky with sweat and frightened tears smear his glasses. He’s always avoided this section of the manor; avoided any idea of the Keep entirely. He knows what goes on there, still bears the marks to prove it. 

When they enter a familiar room with a metal table he nearly passes out. A doctor dressed in a smock presses something to his arm - a pinch, and then black.

He wakes up with rough fabric over his eyes, disoriented thoughts slipping through his fingers like water. It’s the familiar feeling of waking up after being sedated – the drowsy, cotton-heavy shifting of his limbs making him relaxed and compliant. His eyes itch beneath the wrap of cloth, but he can’t move his hands to rub them, so instead he lies as still as he can and counts his breaths.

It’s quiet, though he can hear the distant creak of nearby Magitek soldiers, and he tries to steady his breathing and take stock of his body. It doesn’t _feel_ any different than before – aside from the drowsy sludge settled in his bones and the bandages over his eyes. He’s not sure how much time passes before he hears the door open with a hiss.

“Well then,” says a voice, and Prompto immediately knows it’s Ardyn , relaxes just a touch at the familiar presence. “That was relatively painless, now wasn’t it? Up you go.” 

And then the restraints are gone and he’s being eased up to stand, leaning heavily on Ardyn as the world pitches beneath his feet. It’s worse that he’s in darkness, that the encroaching panic presses steadily behind his heart like a threat. 

He reaches up to feel at the edges of the bandages, but Ardyn tugs his hand away with a tsk. “We wouldn’t want to aggravate it, would we? Everything should be alright in a day or so. You’ll just have to be patient and wait for everything to settle in.”

Prompto wants to cry, wants to ask what’s been done to him, but he can’t find the energy and merely nods as Ardyn helps him walk. It’s slow progress, and he leans more of his weight into Ardyn’s frame as they go – deathly afraid of stepping wrong and slipping over the edge of one of the walkway grates by accident. 

He sharpens his hearing to try and make up for his lost sight, and he picks up on all the clangs and clatter of the metal halls and the Magiteks patrolling the area. But other than that and the tapping of their footsteps, there isn’t much hint as to where they’re headed. Prompto’s sense of direction has been turned on its head, and the only thing he knows is when they go _down_ – the familiar lurch tugging in his gut as the elevator descends and sends his heartbeat into overdrive.

Eventually they reach their destination and Ardyn pauses to open a door – heavy, judging by the groan it gives – and then Prompto’s eased to sit down on a plush couch. It’s his room, he can tell by the raised pattern beneath his fingers as they run over the cushions. He feels a deep exhaustion in his bones as he settles back into the familiar comfort.

“Your advanced weapons training begins in a week,” Ardyn says absently, and Prompto jolts when fingers trace along the bandages. “These can come off soon, but don’t rub. Keep the lights low and use this if you find your eyes are too dry.” A small plastic bottle is pressed into Prompto’s hands and as he traces the outline of it, he realizes that they’re eye drops.

“What… what did they do to me?” he asks, each word thick and clumsy across his tongue.

Ardyn hums thoughtfully before responding. “We can’t very well have a prince with poor vision now, can we? Your darling public needs a figure without _weakness_ to look up to,” he says, and Prompto curls into himself at the dig. “Do try and get some rest.” 

And then he’s gone, the click of the door all that lingers.

Too tired to try and even process everything, Prompto stands and stumbles around until he finds his bed and curls up under the covers. The linen feels oppressive over the ghost of the restraints, and he ends up kicking it down to the end of the bed before finally falling into an uneasy sleep to the faint noises of the Magitek soldier on guard.

When he wakes up, he feels worse than before he’d gone to sleep, groggy and panicked at the darkness before he lifts a hand to his head and remembers. He’s not sure how long he was out, but his body is stiff with protest as he stands from the bed and stumbles over in the direction of the en suite. 

His mouth's as dry as the desert lands out in Succarpe and when he finally find the taps he dips his head to drink from his hands in long pulls. It’s cool and refreshing, waking him up more as he feels it settle comfortably in his belly. 

When his thirst is sated, he turns off the rush of water and stands still at the sink, hands gripping the smooth porcelain to ground himself before finally reaching up to undo the fabric over his eyes. It’s hard to find the end of it but after he catches it, unwinding it is a repetitive process, and then it’s off, the bandage bunched in his hands.

It takes a minute for him to open his sticky eyes, and when he does his heart stutters when he realizes he still can’t see anything. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the cloudiness from his sight, before remembering the drops and pulling them out, clumsily trying to land one or two in each eye. Eventually, his vision clears, and when he can finally _see_ it’s sharper than ever.

For a long minute, he finds himself staring at the bristles on his toothbrush and how defined they are, how each one is its own sharp outline. He reaches to push up his glasses out of habit and startles when he touches his bare face instead. Glancing up into the mirror, he stares again. 

He seems the same… mostly. 

His face looks thinner without the bulky frames resting on his nose and his eyes, when he leans closer, have a very slight violet tinge to them – a hint of what he would have become if he hadn’t been removed from the program. He shudders at the thought.

He averts his eyes and sees his glasses have been left out on the counter. He won’t need them anymore, now that he’s fixed of his defects and has been forcefully adjusted to fit the public’s view of him; a perfect idol in every way. He picks them up gently, fingers curling over the spindly legs of the frames as he holds them close. 

A tight band squeezes his chest as he remembers what he’s always known, try as he may to forget – he is not his own. He belongs to the Empire and has ever since they found him.

His eyes are too dry to cry.

* * *

When the day of his first advanced weapons training rolls around his stomach recoils. He’s led down to the armory and practice rooms further down in the manor where he changes into practical clothes and waits for his new instructor. The walls are lined with different types of weapons of various shapes and sizes and he eyes them warily.

The few precursory lessons in defense he’d had throughout the years were nothing to a deeper extent. It reminds him of the time before Ardyn rescued him - the vicious battles between his peers to avoid decommissioning in order to advance in the program, how much it hurt to raise a weapon against them. He’d gotten by on deflection alone, until he hadn’t.

He’s shaking in his boots by the time the door opens, sharp click of polished shoes against the floor as a stoic woman whirls into the room. Her silver hair is pulled back in a ponytail of sectioned hair, clasps catching in the muted light, and what she lacks in height she makes up for in presence. The sharp green of her eyes makes Prompto want to squirm as she looks him over, but instead he falls into rest at attention, hands clasped behind his back.

“Your Highness,” she says, with a tilt of her head. “I am Commodore Aranea Highwind and I’ll be overseeing your training.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, formalities stilted in his mouth.

There’s a hint of a smirk at the corner of her lips as she selects a practice lance taller than herself. “Tell me, what is your experience so far?”

“Not much,” he admits, and glances to the floor. He figures he should be truthful here, with his well being in her hands, rather than exaggerate and wind up hurt. “I’ve been trained in defense mostly, but aside from that I struggle with close combat.”

Aranea hums thoughtfully, and selects a similar weapon to pass over. “We’ll run through the works, see if we can find anything that clicks. Over time we’ll lean into your strengths while we round out your weaknesses. Any questions?”

“No ma’am.”

She raises an eyebrow at that, but there’s little time before she’s swooping in to attack. Prompto manages to raise his staff to block the blow, footwork stumbling as she follows it up on the other side. He blocks only a few more strikes before he falls, her staff aimed at his chest.

“Dead.”

He stares up at her, chest heaving, and blinks when she offers a hand to help him up. “Not a terrible first try.” The praise washes over him like the warm, slow drip of honey and they return to the task at hand.

The week goes by and every day he meets Aranea after his lessons to continue training. They cycle through a number of weapons, each more clumsy in his hands than the last. He drops his practice dagger and rolls onto his back with a sigh.

“I told you. Hopeless.”

Aranea kicks his boot. “And I said otherwise. You calling me a liar?”

“...No.”

“Good. Again.”

At the very least he’s learning to hold his ground, footwork and blocking solidifying under Aranea’s watchful eye and instruction. The next time he meets with her she directs him to a different room divided by booths along a waist-high wall.

“What is this?” he asks, eyes catching on the row of targets in the far back. “A shooting range?”

Aranea crosses her arms and grins. “Your close combat skills are improving, but it’s not your niche. Figured we’d give long range a try.”

She picks out a handgun from the collection, passing over a set of earplugs and goggles. The gun feels awkward in his uncertain grip, but she adjusts his stance and levels his aim with the target. Pulling the trigger is unlike anything he’s felt before and he stares in shock as it pierces right through the center of the target.

The pride bubbling in his chest threatens to explode and he smiles brightly at Aranea. “Maybe it wasn’t a bust after all,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, but there’s a lightness to her tone. “Prove it’s not beginner’s luck and we’ll talk.”

He nails the target three more times. 

After that, she starts to show him how to disassemble the gun, going over the bits and pieces and their maintenance before walking him through putting it back together.

“Spend a lot of time with your dad?”

Prompto makes a deliberating noise as he clicks a piece into place, in love with the straightforward mechanics. “Not really,” he says. “We have dinner sometimes.”

“Ah,” she says, and corrects the direction he’s holding the next part. “Any chance of this war coming to an end?”

The final piece snaps into place and Prompto rolls the barrel into place with a click before setting the gun down on the table. “I don’t really know a lot about what’s happening out there. He mostly talks to Ardyn about that stuff.”

“Makes sense.”

Aranea’s staring at him again, but it feels less scrutinizing and more curious than anything. She must find whatever she’s looking for, because she picks up the gun and stands with a sigh. 

“Good job today kid,” she says, and reaches out to ruffle his hair. “In time you might even be a good shot.”

“Heyyy,” Prompto whines, and absolutely doesn’t lean into the touch. The quirk at the corner of Aranea’s lips awakens a playful giddiness inside his chest and he vows to capture it on film before the week is out.

He doesn’t get the chance, sucked into the center of a PR hurricane making landfall. In addition to his new 20/20 eyesight he gets an upgraded wardrobe and a layered haircut that gets in his eyes and he can barely figure out how to style.

The official public introduction is a gathering held in one of the giant rooms in the lower levels of the manor. Prompto’s never been inside before, the floors polished to a shine and imported flowers adorned on every surface. Unlike the rest of the manor, this room is warm in a mirage of a beating heart within a cold skeleton.

Prompto’s hands shake as he waits for his cue. The Magitek soldier nearby makes his hair stand on end, and he wishes his weapons training hadn’t been cancelled that week so Aranea could’ve talked the nerves right out of his stomach. The murmur belies the crowd – court families not yet called into suspicion before the emperor and newscasters alike.

“Back straight, head high,” says Ardyn, touch gently correcting his posture. “They’ll love you, so just breathe and remember what we’ve practiced.”

The swirl of vague answers swim in his mind and when his name is called before the court, Ardyn’s hand at his back is an anchor.

They do love him, the public eating up the idea of an heir – a future. Before he knows it he’s whisked off to an interview outside the upper district and tries to contain his excitement as he and Ardyn pile into the car.

His impression of Gralea from his bedroom window is vast and wonderous, but here he sees the gritty underbelly firsthand as they pass through the lower districts. It’s snowing, the white flakes turning to grey and black from the dirt and muck. He spots people huddled in the corners of buildings and alleys, wrapped in patched jackets and watching their car with hollow eyes.

“Who are they?”

“Mm?”

“Can’t we help them?”

Ardyn pats his knee. “Ever the optimist. Prompto dear, I’m going to tell you one of the biggest secrets in life.” He catches his gaze, face falling stoic. “No matter how much you try to help, life will always take that generosity and stab you in the back.”

The breath stutters in Prompto’s chest and the cold gleam disappears from Ardyn’s eyes as he smiles. “So try not to worry about things that don’t affect you.”

He finds it hard to smile before the camera trained on him, but he manages to dredge one up for the interviewer.

“So, why have we not heard from you publicly before now?”

Prompto folds his hands in his lap, fighting not to fidget on the vinyl of the blue couch. “My father wanted my education to be uninterrupted while I was young, in order for me to grow up without the pressures of the media’s eye.”

“But now you’re ready?"

“Yes, I’m ready to face my country and do my part to help us thrive.”

“Well, that’s certainly good to hear. What are your opinions on this war and its effect on the citizens of Niflheim?”

Off to the side Ardyn makes a vague gesture with his hand from behind the scene. Prompto dredges up the rehearsed answer. “It’s a tentative time for our country and the aim is to do what’s best for everyone in the long run.”

The words taste acidic in his mouth. Even as he speaks, he knows there are meetings and war councils meeting back in Zegnautus without his oh-so- _vital_ presence. 

“Your job is the most important,” Ardyn says as they head back, passing by through the slums once again. It’s dark now, the soft glow of burning fires far in the distant alleyways. Two dogs fight over an upturned trash can. “You provide these people with hope while the work is being done.”

Prompto wants to scoff, but he swallows it along with the bitter taste in his mouth.

He runs into his father on the way back to his room, the man barely glancing up from his papers as he hurries down the hall.

“Father, wait.”

Iedolas stops and grimaces. “Oh, it’s you.”

“We just got back,” he says, and Iedolas stares at him blankly. “From the interview?”

“Right, right. Glad it went well.” He pivots on his heel, making to rush back down the hall when Prompto reaches out to grab his sleeve.

“Wait-”

Iedolas freezes, staring at the hand on his arm until Prompto removes it. “I - I wanted to talk about what I saw. There are people living on the streets. They look like they barely have enough to eat.”

“And?”

The words tie up on Prompto’s tongue as he scrambles to organize his thoughts. “It’s winter. Why can’t we help them?”

Scoffing, Iedolas tucks his papers beneath his arm and straightens to his full height. “If we handed out scraps to everyone we’d be out of resources entirely. Our first priority is this war.”

“But if we don’t help our own citizens then who is left to fight for?”

The sting is sharp, Prompto’s head jerking to the side as his eye throbs. He raises a hand to his cheek, shock settling deep in his bones. 

“You should know your place by now, boy,” Iedolas bites, his hand still raised high. “It’s not in the strategy room having thoughts or opinions – it’s out there before our populace. You’ve never been more than a distraction and that’s all you’ll ever be.”

Prompto holds his face, blinking away the moisture clinging to his lashes. “Yes, sir.”

They part ways, Iedolas hurrying down the hall and Prompto retreating back to his room with tentative steps. He stays in bed the rest of the night, skipping dinner and lying awake as the wind howls outside.

By the time morning rolls around, his body aches with exhaustion and when he glances in the mirror of his ensuite the skin around his eye is tight and angry. He washes his face with care before slipping into his training clothes and heading down to meet with Aranea.

“I hope you don’t think all your time off will make me go easy on-” Aranea stops, catching sight of him as he edges through the door. “Who gave you that?”

Prompto lifts a hand to touch the dark bruise and drops it, shaking his head. His heartbeat rattles around inside his ribcage like spare change, and he averts his eyes from her piercing stare.

“All right, come on,” she says, and brushes past him in a furious breeze.

He follows hesitantly, aware of the sharp echo of her boots. “Where are we going?”

She doesn’t answer, leading him past endless halls of training rooms and bunkers. The deeper they go, the more people they pass, their eyes stuck to them like fly traps. He’s always been kept to the more secluded parts of the manor and away from view. Prompto keeps his gaze on Aranea’s boots cutting a path through for them.

She slides open a door near the end of the hall and ushers him inside. It’s stacked with haphazard boxes and a wobbly table around which two men are seated. One throws down his hands, cards sliding across as the other grins and rakes in a pile of wrapped candies. 

“Biggs, Wedge, meet Prompto.”

The men stop, eyes flicking over as their faces melt into surprise. “Y-your Highness!” one splutters, accent rough and brash.

Prompto shuffles uneasily. “That’s not necessary.”

“He’s going to hang out here with us today,” says Aranea, and she strides to the far side of the room to where one of the boxes sits opened, papers stacked across the counter.

“Oh! Uh, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Aranea slaps some papers down and cocks her hip. “Are you questioning me?”

“No ma’am.”

The other man – he’s not entirely sure who is Biggs and who is Wedge – shrugs and reshuffles the cards. “So, Prompto, any good at Rummy?”

Prompto watches him bend them into a bridge before he cuts the deck and begins again. “Rummy?”

Possibly Biggs, Possibly Wedge pats one of the empty chairs as Possibly Wedge, Possibly Biggs deals them a hand. “One way to find out.”

By their third round, Prompto’s relaxed from the edge of his seat as the occasional shuffle of papers from Aranea’s side and the back and forth between Biggs and Wedge replaces the static noise filling his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for this section! I hope you enjoyed! If you have a moment, I'd love to hear what stuck out to you ♡
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/countpaperstars) | [writing blog](http://countingpaperstars.tumblr.com) | [tumblr](http://thenameisfame.tumblr.com)


	3. Nineteen/Twenty Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _That night he lies in bed, wondering just what he’s supposed to do. He’s never felt this way about someone – like he’s going to pass out or throw up at any given second._
> 
> A stranger sweeps in and catches Prompto unaware.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we’re cooking! Onto the part one of ages nineteen/twenty and our first look at the mysterious Cinis. pigeon-princess drew a lovely portrait of our boy!! Which you can find over [here.](https://pigeon-princess.tumblr.com/post/640841410898247680/to-celebrate-the-posting-of-the-prequel-chapter-of) Please go tell her how lovely it is! It's been over three years since we formed our friendship and created this world and Cinis. We’ve sat on this story for so long, it’s nice to finally be able to share it! Huge thank you to her for everything!! 
> 
> Again, be wary of the tags heading into this - if you need more specific warning, there’s another slap in this chapter.
> 
> Enjoy~

The alcove isn’t big enough to shield Prompto entirely from the bright lights, but it’s enough to hide him mostly from view. Beyond the safety of its shadow, people pack the ballroom, chattering over the music playing softly beneath the din.

He hates functions like this, hates being paraded around for everyone to see. He’s hardly expected to say a word – merely a decoration among the elite. It’s necessary though, in Ardyn’s words, in order to present the unfaltering image of the empire’s future. Him.

What a joke.

“So, what’s a ray of sunshine like you doing at a party like this?”

A pair of shoes comes into view, so shiny Prompto can see his reflection in them, and he glances up. It’s hard to make out the man’s features, backlit as they are, and he squints. “Are you talking to me?”

“Who else, sweetheart?”

The name strikes a chord, and heat floods Prompto’s cheeks and ears. He isn’t sure what to make of it. It isn’t the first time someone’s come onto him, and Prompto opens his mouth to tell the man off.

_“Play nice.”_

Ardyn’s words bounce around in Prompto’s head, and he snaps his mouth shut, resigned to enduring. 

The man shifts, leaning against the wall beside Prompto, bringing him into focus. He’s young – closer to Prompto’s age than more than half of the people here – with messy ash-brown hair falling in curls to frame his face. The tilt of his lips is playful, tucked beneath sharp green eyes.

Prompto’s heart catches in his throat, but he shoves it down. This is neither the time nor place.

The man smells faintly of alcohol, glass in hand, and Prompto wonders just how much he’s had to drink. “You’re drunk.”

The man shrugs and casts his gaze out over the ballroom. Prompto takes the opening to study his profile unabashedly. He has a lovely structured face, smooth slope of a nose and pointed chin. His eyelashes catch the light, dark against his high cheekbones.

“And you’re hiding,” says the man. “Guess we deal with these things in different ways.”

Prompto blinks, surprised.

He didn’t expect this man to call him out so frankly. After all, his feelings aren’t important in the scheme of things.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh.” Prompto thinks back. “Don’t you know who I am?”

The man turns back to him, glancing over him from head to toe and taking his time about it. “Should I? Think I’d remember a face like yours.”

He says it as if it’s a fact, rather than a pick-up line.

This man has no idea who he is, Prompto realizes with a start. He shifts uncomfortably, wondering if he should tell him. But… it’s not often he gets an opportunity like this – to interact without some sort of expectation. If he doesn’t know Prompto’s the prince, then…

“Why did you come over here?”

The man shrugs, and smiles. “You looked like you could use some company. Or at least, an excuse to look busy.”

It’s surprisingly thoughtful, and Prompto’s brain short circuits. “I – thank you.”

“No need,” says the man, and he holds out his hand. “I’m Cinis.”

Prompto takes his hand hesitantly, palm enveloped in a solid grip. His fingers are long and smooth, and they’re gentle as he brings Prompto’s hand up to his lips and kisses the back of it.

Heat shoots through Prompto from head to toe, and he’s fairly certain his skin is the color of a blooming rose. 

Oh.

_Oh._

Prompto squirms, suddenly coming to the realization that he _likes_ this man – likes his charm and crooked smile. It’s an uncomfortable feeling – Prompto more used to fending off advances from creeps who think of him as little more than an ornament, or someone to suck up to. Panic crests over him in a wave, so he does the only thing he can think to do. 

He walks away.

“Excuse me.” The words are faint, barely strong enough to make it past Prompto’s lips.

Cheeks still burning, he tugs his hand away and goes to find Ardyn across the room. Hurrying to his side, Prompto ignores the feeling of the man’s eyes on his back.

“Faring all right, dear?” Ardyn asks. His eyes are lingering over Prompto’s shoulder, but Prompto refuses to look back. It’s then that he realizes he never introduced himself, and fights the urge to bury himself alive.

“Yes,” he says, anyway. “Just fine.”

“Hm.”

Ardyn glances down at him, but doesn’t say anything more, instead leading him to yet another court member for introductions.

Prompto settles back into his routine in the coming weeks – swept up in interviews and lessons, trying hard to play the role he’s been cast. He doesn’t forget about Cinis, but brushes aside the thought of him every time it comes up. He doesn’t have time to remember making a fool of himself. And besides, he’ll probably never see him again.

“We’ve guests coming from Accordo,” says Ardyn, one evening over supper. “Try to be on your best behavior.”

Prompto nods.

Although Accordo had been granted retention of its own government after being annexed, Niflheim still oversees much of the larger scale decisions. Which means meetings. So many meetings.

Having visitors is exhausting; he hates having to watch his every step around them. Small talk comes naturally and rehearsed, but it’s still tiring. Prompto finds he likes when the manor is empty, when he can roam the halls as himself, rather than as Prince Prompto.

The day comes to receive the visitors and Prompto dresses in his nice clothes before heading to the throne room. His father is already there in his seat, with Ardyn standing a step down at his side. Prompto takes the other side of him and nods in greeting to both of them.

A group of affable-looking people enter through the main door, some of whom Prompto recognizes from previous envoys. Their names are called out in succession, and Prompto glances over the group casually, until he spots a familiar head of ash-brown hair, heart stopping.

It’s Cinis, looking decidedly more aware and put together.

When their eyes meet, the room clicks into focus, every color exaggerated and sharp. Prompto feels the ground shift beneath his feet and he steadies himself, drawing Ardyn’s attention. He barely notices.

Cinis looks just as shocked as Prompto feels, eyes wide and jaw slack, before he snaps to attention as his introduction is called out.

“Cinis Angelov.”

Prompto rolls the syllables over in his mind, reveling in how neatly they fall together. The name suits him, he thinks. Their last interaction plays on loop in Prompto’s mind, and he fights the embarrassment rolling over him. He avoids Cinis’ eyes the rest of the reception.

A welcome dinner is thrown that evening, a banquet table adorned with fine china and succulent, steaming foods. Prompto wonders if he can get away without making any conversation with Cinis, but that thought is thrown out the door when he realizes they’re seated right across from each other.

“How are you enjoying Gralea?” Ardyn asks the table.

“Very beautiful,” says a stern-looking ambassador. She cuts her meat into small pieces before taking a bite. “And the dinner is divine.”

“It’s very beautiful indeed,” says Cinis. He winks at Prompto, who bursts into flames.

Ardyn leans over close to him, hand on Prompto’s wrist. “Are you faring well?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

With an indiscernible hum, Ardyn takes the answer and leans back. Prompto turns away from his keen eyes and wills away the burn along his cheeks.

It’s going to be a long visit.

Prompto tries his best to engage in the small talk without talking too much directly to Cinis. He doesn’t want the Accordo party to think he’s avoiding one of their members. That wouldn’t do any good for diplomacy.

After dinner, Prompto excuses himself and makes for his rooms. He hurries along, trying not to get caught up in the party retreating to a parlor for conversation.

Footsteps echo after his, and he jumps as Cinis pulls up alongside him. He doesn’t try to stop him, merely falling in step with Prompto’s brisk stride.

“Your Highness,” he says, and Prompto tries not to flinch.

“Prompto’s fine.”

Cinis smiles at that. “Prompto,” he corrects. “We should do something!”

“Like what?”

“I know! Let’s go for a walk around town tonight. You can show me the sights!”

Prompto grinds to a halt, gaping at him. “We – we can’t do that.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever been outside the manor on a trip that wasn’t pre-planned and supervised. It’s one thing to be herded from interview to interview, but to go out for pleasure? Prompto doesn’t even know what ‘the sights’ would be.

“Why not?” Cinis asks, brow twisting as he frowns.

“I’m not allowed.”

“So what?”

Prompto glances around the hall, wary of the Magitek standing a few feet away. “Maybe some other time.”

He darts away, slipping further down the hall before Cinis can react.

That night he lies in bed, wondering just what he’s supposed to do. He’s never felt this way about someone – like he’s going to pass out or throw up at any given second. It doesn’t help that Cinis treats him so plainly. Prompto’s used to people talking to him to get something out of it, but he can’t figure out Cinis’ angle.

It isn’t a one time thing.

Over the next few days, Prompto does his best to hide, but he’s inevitably drawn in to meetings and gatherings with the ambassador party. Cinis finds him after every time.

“How about today?”

“Show me around town?”

“How about the manor?”

Finally, Prompto halts in his escape and stares at Cinis in disbelief. The rest of the party retreats down the hall, leaving them alone save for a Magitek by the door. Cinis smiles at him, open and disarming. If he’s put off by Prompto’s frequent running away, he doesn’t show it. It’s getting harder and harder to find excuses.

“What do you want?”

Cinis’ smile slips. “What do you mean?”

Prompto twists his hands together and shrugs. “You must want something.”

“Yeah,” says Cinis, and oh boy, here it comes. “I want to spend time with you.” He shrugs and offers a sheepish smile. “Thought it was obvious.”

It’s blunt, no hint of an underlying reason, and Prompto short circuits. That’s not… what he expected. No one ever wants to just spend time with him, not without getting something in return. The butterflies in his chest riot.

He walks away.

Cinis doesn’t follow, and Prompto doesn’t stop until he reaches his destination, slipping into the room and throwing the lock. Biggs and Wedge hardly look up from their game of cards, but Aranea glances over from her desk with a frown.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

Prompto flounders. “...Hiding?”

“From that piece of eye candy from Altissia?”

Prompto frowns. “Don’t call him that.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not if I don’t. What’s the deal with him anyway?” 

Aranea glances him up and down and Prompto shifts his feet. “There’s no deal,” he says.

She hums and shuffles her notes. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

Prompto blushes bright and stares down at the floor. The fact that Aranea knows already isn’t strange to him, but the thought of him and Cinis being a topic for manor gossip makes him feel uneasy. It’s like being thrust under a spotlight with no lines.

“Look,” Aranea says with a sigh. “You’re young. I say get out there and have fun if you can. You, of all people, deserve it.”

He isn’t sure what she means by that. It’s not as if he has the time and freedom to do as he pleases when he likes, but that’s just the way his life is. The idea of pursuing something, anything, for fun, is almost too much to consider.

“I’ve never… He makes me nervous, like I’m about to throw up butterflies.”

Biggs snorts a laugh. “Ain’t that just the way it is.” 

Wedge reaches over and smacks him, their banter quickly devolving into a small tousle. The chairs skid across the floor and Prompto smothers a laugh at their antics.

“Give it a try, or don’t,” says Aranea, turning back to her papers. Prompto sobers. “You’re always welcome here, Prompto.”

Prompto collapses into one of the chairs around the table and Wedge stops fighting Biggs long enough to deal him in. Biggs attempts to straighten his hair and leans over to pat Prompto sympathetically on the hand.

That evening, he manages to avoid Cinis all the way back to the hall outside his rooms, but runs into another problem entirely.

“Ah, Prompto,” says Ardyn, turning from where he had been conversing with Iedolas. “I need you to be present at the meeting tomorrow. Diplomat Allectus has been quite… distracted by your presence. Let’s use it to our advantage while we can.”

It’s not the first time someone’s found interest in him, nor the first Ardyn has sought to exploit it. Prompto hadn’t minded at first – all he had to do was sit and endure their flirtations until they left. But as he grows older, Prompto can’t shake the slime that drips down his spine at the thought of another middle-aged person offering a salacious grin his way. Especially when they're here to discuss politics.

“Don’t you think that’s a little unfair?” he says, without thinking.

The slap comes without warning, and Prompto reels back from Iedolas’ hand. “Don’t go thinking you have a say in business like this,” he says, then fixes his cloaks. “We’ll see you first thing in the morning.”

Prompto raises a hand to his cheek and avoids Ardyn’s gaze, dreading the disappointment. Instead, he stares down at his feet until their footsteps fade away.

“Hey.”

With a jolt, Prompto lowers his hand and pivots to find Cinis standing a few feet away. He’s holding a single flower in hand, but the look on his face is uncharacteristically blank.

“Hey,” Prompto answers.

“This was for you,” says Cinis, gesturing with the flower.

“But?”

Cinis pauses, eyes searching as he looks over Prompto’s face. His cheek throbs, but he resists the urge to raise a hand to it.

“I wanted to apologize. For pushing you. I understand if you’re not interested in pursuing anything,” he says. “Could we start over? And get to know one another while I’m here?”

It’s not what Prompto’s expecting, and he really should get used to Cinis surprising him. Prompto suddenly realizes the feeling in his chest is desire – to learn more, be surprised more. He thinks of Aranea’s words, thinks of how he deserves to have fun, and takes the plunge.

“I’d like that.”

“Hi, I’m Cinis Angelov.” He offers his hand for Prompto to take. “Appointed paperwork jockey and coffee errand boy.”

“Prompto Aldercapt. Pleased to meet you.” He takes the hand, reveling in Cinis’ warm grip, and giggles at the silliness of the whole thing.

Cinis passes over the flower, and Prompto lifts it to smell. It’s fresh, and beautiful. Prompto smiles.

“Come on,” he says, and starts off down the hall.

He leads Cinis to an outer balcony overlooking Gralea. It’s brisk out, the breeze just turning this side of chilly as the leaves fall. The clouds are low and oppressive in the sky around Zegnautus Keep, suffocating the bustling city.

“So… why are you here if not for important business?”

“Oh, we are,” says Cinis. He leans against the balcony with a hand propped under his chin. Prompto takes a seat on the bench along it and twirls the flower between his fingers. “I’m interning at the office for the summer. My guardian Druscilla set it up. She has big hopes for me in politics, but I’m not sure if it’s the right thing for me.”

“It’s nice that she cares for you so much to help you.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Cinis shrugs. “She took me in after my parents died. I’m very thankful for her.”

Prompto can’t help but think about how similar they are in that respect. Cinis has Druscilla, and he has Ardyn. People who cared enough to take them in after hardship and raise them to be the best they can be.

Regardless, it seems like a shaky subject, so Prompto flounders for what to talk about next.

“Is Altissia nice?”

“Oh, it’s the best!” Cinis says, lighting up. “Warm summers, mild winters. Everyone out on the streets, friendly neighbors playing music, gelato carts up and down the boulevards. The canals are something else, too. Oh! And the parties.” He grins, and mimes climbing over the balcony. “I used to sneak out all the time to race around the bridges. We’d have contests to see who could run the courses faster.”

He sighs and rocks on his heels. “I love the water the most,” he says. “Especially when the sun is rising or setting. It hits the waterfalls and makes this gorgeous rainbow mist.”

“It sounds beautiful,” says Prompto. “I wish I could see it.”

“Someday you’ll have to come and visit so I can show you.”

He says it so easily, like it’s a real possibility. It’s almost as if he forgets who Prompto is, the responsibilities and weight he carries.

Prompto smiles something small and sad. “I’d like that.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

Cinis gestures wide with a hand. “What would you rather be doing than all this?”

Another surprise. Prompto’s never been asked what he’d like, with anything. Choice is not a familiar word. The answer comes all at once, though he hesitates on giving it away.

“Photography.”

“No kidding! I bet you’re really good.” Cinis smiles, and this time there’s something more genuine about it.

Prompto shakes his head to clear the daze. “Flatterer.”

“Prove me right and show me some of your work.”

Trying and failing to hide his grin, Prompto says, “Maybe.”

“I’ll take it.” Cinis stares out over the city. “So, you going to let me hang out with you again after this?”

Prompto pretends to think, already knowing the answer. “Hm, well…”

With a pout, Cinis clasps his hands beneath his chin and angles puppy dog eyes at Prompto, who laughs. “Okay, okay. Tomorrow. I’ll meet you back here after the meetings.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The days fall away like the leaves on the trees, and the balcony fast becomes their place. The meetings stretch on long as the days grow short, and they find solace in each other as a break from all the politics.

“Let me treat you,” Cinis says, one day after a particularly long meeting.

Wrinkling his nose, Prompto asks, “What do you mean?”

“Trust me?”

Prompto hesitates. “Okay,” he says, wondering just when it became true.

He’s rewarded with a blinding smile. “Great! Meet me on the balcony later tonight.”

The rest of the afternoon is spent pacing before Aranea’s desk, until she shoves him down in a chair under threat of treason.

“Ah, to be young again,” Wedge bemoans. Aranea hits him in the back of the head as she passes, but smiles when Prompto stifles his giggles.

He comes down to the balcony to find a small table set up, adorned with candles. The glow bounces off the marble, flames dancing as a fresh breeze sweeps through in a rare moment of mild weather. A small vase rests in the center, filled with purple snapdragons. Cinis is seated at the table, head tilted on his hand as he draws circles on the tablecloth.

“Wow,” says Prompto.

Cinis jolts, standing up so fast his chair nearly upends. His curls bounce, more defined than usual, and his piercing eyes are bright with candlelight. He’s dressed in pressed clothes, shirt unbuttoned low. Prompto blushes when he realizes he’s staring.

“I almost thought you wouldn’t come,” says Cinis.

Prompto smiles shyly. “I wouldn’t leave you waiting.”

Rounding the table, Cinis pulls out the opposite chair for him and pushes it in when he’s seated. “I thought we’d enjoy the lovely evening. It’s almost nice enough to rival Altissia.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Maybe I’m exaggerating a tad,” says Cinis with a smile. He pulls a basket up from the floor and begins to set the table with dishes of food. “I thought I’d bring a little Altissia to us.”

“How… how did you manage all this?”

Cinis presses a finger to his lips with a wink. “I’m a quick friend, don’t you know? And your kitchen staff is very easily persuaded.”

It startles a laugh out of Prompto, and Cinis grins. He pulls out a bottle of moscato and pours them both a drink. Prompto takes a sip – it’s fizzy and sweet and everything he loves. He side-eyes Cinis, wondering just how much the kitchen staff told him.

The food is delicious, consisting of several dishes Prompto’s never had the pleasure of experiencing before – braided bread, noodles slathered in pesto, and a delicate cake set aside for dessert.

Prompto’s never been treated to something so intimate before. With the candlelight, the world softens to something contained between just them. The city below and the manor and Keep towering over them all but disappear. Prompto finds himself laughing more than he ever has before, but despite the good food and good company, something still bothers him.

He falls quiet as Cinis cuts the cake, placing a hearty piece onto a plate for Prompto.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks.

“Anything.”

“Why me?”

Cinis’ nose wrinkles and Prompto’s heart gives a worrying thud. “‘Why you’ what?”

“You know what I mean.” He shrugs and toys with his fork. “There’s so many other people suited for you.”

Silence.

Prompto looks up to find Cinis staring at him across the table.

“You truly don’t know how special you are,” he says, and Prompto bursts into flames. Cinis smiles, soft and sweet. “The truth is, I see something in you. Something I recognize in myself.”

“What’s that?”

“You want to be known.”

Cinis goes back to cutting the cake, as if he hasn’t just shifted Prompto’s entire world on its axis. His breath catches and the world goes blurry, just for a second. The kaleidoscope of colors whirls around him, then settles, until all there is is him and Cinis and the space between them.

“Here,” says Cinis, holding out a forkful of cake.

Prompto opens his mouth without thinking, taking the fluffy piece and chewing thoughtfully. It’s so delicious he could cry.

“Thank you for humoring me,” says Cinis, when everything is set aside to be taken back to the kitchens.

“I had a really good time,” says Prompto, and finds he means it.

Cinis shifts the basket in his arms and reaches out to take Prompto’s hand. He moves deliberately, leaving his grip loose enough to pull away. Prompto holds his breath.

The brush of Cinis’ lips against his knuckles is soft and warm. Prompto can’t look away, and wonders, ever so briefly, what it would be like to have those lips against his own.

“Until tomorrow,” says Cinis, with a wink.

“Well, well.”

They both jump, the basket rattling in Cinis’ arms as Ardyn melts out from the shadows.

“Aren’t you two getting along like a house on fire,” he says, and Prompto’s stomach drops.

A shadow passes over Cinis’ face, and he steps away. “Chancellor,” he says, and with a nod in his direction, retreats down the hall.

Prompto stands with his hands twisting in his shirt, waiting for reprimand with nerves in his chest. There’s no rule against him hanging out with Cinis, but there’s an air he can’t decipher. Ardyn’s face is so blank, he can’t tell if he’s upset.

“Off to bed, I think,” says Ardyn.

“Goodnight,” Prompto whispers, and passes by carefully.

When nothing happens, he retreats to his room.

The night had been so good, but now he can’t stop the worry from building bricks in his mind. He’s never seen Ardyn so cryptic. It’s unnerving. And what of Cinis? He’d gotten so strangely closed off when Ardyn appeared. 

The unease sits on Prompto’s shoulders as he curls up on his window seat and stares out over the city. The yellow lights remind him of candles and he touches the back of his hand with longing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you have a moment I'd love to know what you think (especially about Cinis >:3c)
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/countpaperstars) | [writing blog](http://countingpaperstars.tumblr.com) | [tumblr](http://thenameisfame.tumblr.com)


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